For A Kinsman Vex'd
by Pargoletta
Summary: In the wake of near-tragic, life-changing events, three young men confront their cousins, each wanting to know “Why?” A Caro-verse story.
1. So Secret And So Close

Note: Welcome to this story! It's not much, just a little exploration of families renewing and renegotiating relationships in the wake of sudden, profound change. It's set just at the beginning of Chapter 15 of _Caro_, and takes place over the course of three days in July. Each chapter is a separate little story, and together they form a triptych.

Enjoy it, and I'll be back at the end.

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**1. So Secret And So Close

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**

The bright rays of summer sunshine made the walls of the bedchamber glow, and the merry song of the lark greeted Romeo's ears as he woke. Something warm pressed against him. He flexed his hand just a little, and was delighted to feel the soft skin of a woman's breast beneath his palm. With a little tickle of breath, the owner of the breast laughed sleepily. It was a child's light giggle, and Romeo's heart thumped to hear the voice of Juliet, the fair creature he was privileged to name his wife.

For as long as he could remember, Romeo Montague had heard tales of marital happiness. His parents, nurses and tutors had expounded upon the joys of love, and had promised that he, too, would know this wonderful state. Though he had spent much of his eighteen years waiting in increasing frustration for the fulfillment of this promise, he now refused to believe that there had ever been a time when he was not transported with the bliss of love.

Juliet stretched, providing a delicious view of her naked torso. Romeo seized the opportunity to wrap his arms around her and nuzzle between her breasts. This caused her to collapse with a giggle that quickly turned into a purr. Juliet eagerly opened her gates to Romeo, and the morning caper began.

They sported and juggled with boundless energy, until Romeo's eyes rolled back in his head, and Juliet drummed her heels wildly upon his buttocks. Spent at last, they rested in each other's arms as they regained their breath. The sun was high in the heavens by the time that they rose from the bed to dress for the day.

This seemed to Romeo to be an entirely agreeable way to start the morning, and he decided that mornings should proceed thus for the foreseeable future. He promenaded through the house with Juliet on his arm, reveling in her admiring glances at the fine ornaments that adorned the Montague family's home. They passed a sitting room where Romeo's father was perusing his morning correspondence, and Romeo straightened his spine and strutted a little. His father seemed to have gained a new respect for him since he had come to the fulfillment of his manhood, and Romeo considered that to be yet another pleasant dividend of his marriage.

Romeo and his father nodded courteously to each other, and the tour continued. The next stop was the library. Romeo did not know the extent of Juliet's interest in books, but he thought that she might like some of the comfortable, padded benches placed in cozy nooks along the walls. He pushed the door open and made a grand gesture to usher Juliet inside. As he had hoped, she smiled at the warm wood paneling and elegant furnishings.

It turned out that they were not alone in the library. Romeo's cousin Benvolio had been reading by one of the windows. He scrambled to his feet and bowed politely to Juliet. "Fair cousin," he said, "it is an honor to encounter thee this morning."

Juliet dropped an equally graceful curtsey. "The honor is mine, Benvolio." She looked delighted to have said the words, and Benvolio smiled in response.

"Good morrow, coz," Romeo said.

Benvolio glanced at him, and his smile faded, to be replaced by an expression of wary uncertainty. His eyes suddenly seemed large and liquid, and Romeo could see great rings beneath them, as though Benvolio had not found much sleep the night before. Distressed that anyone should be unhappy when he himself was so full of joy, Romeo put out his hand to his cousin. But Benvolio stepped back. He picked up his book and nodded to Juliet.

"I shall leave thee and thy new husband in peace," he said. He started to move towards the door, but Romeo reached out again and this time caught Benvolio by the arm. Benvolio's eyes flashed with momentary irritation, but he said nothing.

"Tarry a while," Romeo said. "We have not yet had the time to sit and have speech together, thou and Juliet and I."

Benvolio would not meet Romeo's eye. "I would not disturb thy time with thy new bride," he murmured. He tried to move, but Romeo held him fast.

"Wherefore dost thou avoid me?" he asked.

Benvolio looked away, but he did not deny the accusation. "I do not know thee of late," he said after a moment.

Puzzled, Romeo released his arm. Benvolio did not move, but neither did he lift his gaze from the floor. Juliet glanced at him, then at Romeo. A small frown flitted across her brow, but was quickly chased away by a look of understanding.

"Romeo," she said, her voice as sweet and calm as ever, "Thy lady mother has invited me to behold her herb garden. I believe that she wishes to instruct me in matters proper to married women."

Romeo blinked. He had heard nothing of the sort from his mother, but Juliet gave him a meaningful stare, and he decided that now was not the time to argue the point. He nodded, murmured "Of course," and kissed his wife's hand, exactly as he had seen his father do when taking leave of his mother. Juliet made a small reverence to Benvolio, and slipped out of the room.

Benvolio watched her go, his expression thoughtful. This intrigued Romeo, and an idea burst into his mind. When the door had shut behind Juliet, he turned to his cousin. "Benvolio," he said, the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, "art thou jealous?"

That got Benvolio's attention, and he turned sharply to face Romeo. "Jealous? Nay!" he said, with a snort of nervous laughter. "I am glad that thou hast found a lady love, and I do not grudge thee thy happiness."

"Then what troubles thee? Since the moment that Signior Capulet gave his blessing to our marriage, thou hast been distant. I should think that thou wouldst rejoice along with me. Thou hast gained a lovely new cousin, our quarrel with the house of Capulet will end –"

"Mercutio will recover from his wound in time," Benvolio put in.

"Ay, and Mercutio will be well." Romeo smiled. "These are all cause for joy. Wherefore wilt thou not rejoice?"

Benvolio opened his mouth, then shut it again. He dropped his gaze to the floor, and shook off Romeo's offered hand. His step was distinctly less than certain as he made his way to one of the benches and sat down heavily, gazing out at the light that filtered through the thick, wavy glass. Romeo followed, but remained standing at a small distance.

"Wilt thou not speak?" he asked. "I would make things right between us, but I know not how I have offended."

Benvolio sighed. "Beg pardon," he said. "My sleep has been troubled these past days, and I find that my mind wanders even in daylight."

"He will recover, gentle coz. Thou didst tell me so thyself."

Benvolio twisted around and glared at Romeo. "Because thou hast not yet stirred one foot to call upon him in his confinement."

The bitterness in Benvolio's voice wounded Romeo sorely, the more so because Romeo knew that he had earned it fairly. He considered trying to defend himself by pointing out that he had a new wife who needed his attention, but thought better of it. Though it was far from a lie, it was also not the entirety of the truth. Nothing had prevented him from stealing an hour or two to pay Mercutio a visit, and it was likely that his parents and even Juliet would have approved and sent him off with their blessing. But whenever the idea came into Romeo's mind, it brought a tremendous discomfort that sat in his belly and would not permit him to act upon his intentions. He knew not whence this discomfort came, only that he always found himself putting off the short walk to the ghetto.

"Wilt thou not see him?" Benvolio asked. "Perhaps he can discover what has become of the Romeo I thought I knew."

It was the second time that Benvolio had spoken thus, and Romeo began to realize that his sweet-natured, gentle cousin was, in fact, very angry at him. Somewhat warily, he sat down on the bench, a little further from Benvolio than he would otherwise have done. "I do not take thy meaning," he said, stammering a little as he spoke.

Benvolio's face twitched, and for a moment, Romeo thought he might weep. "Why didst thou deceive us?" he asked.

"Deceive you?"

"Twice in the span of but a single day. Thou didst give us the slip after we left Capulet's feast, and then again when thou didst run off to wed without a word to thy friends or kin."

Romeo could not think of an adequate response. Everything that Benvolio had said was true, though it sounded uglier than he recalled. "I thought all for the best," he offered. "Juliet willed it so."

"Hide not behind thy lady's skirts," Benvolio snapped. "Thou needst not explain thy actions. I know full well why thou didst deceive. Perhaps," he added, his voice softening a little, "I might have done the same."

Now Romeo was thoroughly confused. "Speak not in riddles!" he cried. "Either thou knowest or thou dost not know; either thou art a friend to my cause or thou art angered. Canst thou not speak plainly?" He suppressed an urge to strike Benvolio and settled for grasping handfuls of his own hair in frustration.

Benvolio leaped from his seat and pounded his clenched fist once against the wall, then leaned forward until his brow touched the wood. His shoulders trembled, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with unshed tears. "I cannot speak plainly. My mind is awhirl. I know not how to forgive thee, for I know not where the fault lies in this matter. I am angered and grieved, but perhaps I myself am the proper target, not thou at all."

He sounded so miserable that Romeo could not leave him alone. He approached Benvolio and laid a hand on his shoulder. Benvolio shivered at the touch, then sagged. Romeo put an arm around him and felt the shuddering of his body as Benvolio breathed through tears that did not quite come.

"Why didst thou not tell us?" he moaned. "Had Mercutio known that Juliet was thy wife, he would not have fought Tybalt on thy behalf."

"I would that no one had fought Tybalt at all," Romeo answered.

"I know, but that is not the issue." Benvolio took a deep breath, straightened, and pressed his fingers against his eyes. "Thou hast known Mercutio as long as I have, ever since we were babes. Surely thou canst not have forgotten how quick he is to defend those that cannot defend themselves."

"I had no need of defense," Romeo said, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice.

"But Mercutio did not know that. He still does not know."

That brought Romeo up short. It had not occurred to him before, but now that Benvolio said it, he saw the logic. So much had happened since Monday, and Mercutio had been confined in the ghetto, in the house of Eliezer, the Jewish surgeon. He had witnessed none of the events of the past two days, not the Prince's inquisition, not the extraordinary visit of the Capulets to the home of the Montagues, nor the astonishment of the citizens of Verona when Romeo and Juliet had stood together with their parents on the steps of Saint Peter's church and Friar Lawrence had blazoned their marriage to the whole city.

Romeo released Benvolio and wandered a few steps away. He did not like to think of Mercutio confined in that strange-smelling house. Such thoughts inevitably brought with them the horrifying memories of Valentine's steady, monotonous weeping as he clung to Romeo and the cold shock that had flowed through him when Benvolio had uncovered the terrible wound on Mercutio's chest. And the memory of that wound brought with it an even deeper shame that Romeo could hardly bear to ponder. It was cowardice, and he knew it, but he was powerless against it.

"He should know," he offered, knowing that his words were not enough, and hoping that Benvolio would find it within himself to understand. "Mercutio should know of my marriage. I would have told him then -- perhaps I should have told him then -- but there was no proper moment, not with Tybalt there. Would he have laughed, dost thou think?"

"Tybalt?"

"Nay, Mercutio."

Behind him, Benvolio gave a soft snort of laughter. "Wherefore dost thou care? Perhaps, or perhaps not. He has laughed before, and it has not hurt thee."

"He laughed at maids who were not Juliet," Romeo said.

"Ay, and they were simple maids, not thy lady wife. What harm could his laughter have done compared to the harm that was done to him?"

"I wanted nothing to hinder our one-hour marriage."

Benvolio seized Romeo's shoulder and spun him around. "Hast thou so little faith in thy Friar after all? Or art thou such a prating natural that thou dost not comprehend the sacrament of matrimony? What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder! What harm could the laughter of a youth, thy friend, have done even to thy one-hour marriage?"

For that, Romeo had no answer. As the silence between himself and Benvolio grew more awkward, he wished that his father would sweep in and make things right, as he had done when Romeo and Benvolio had been small children quarrelling over toys. But Romeo knew the Holy Writ as well as Benvolio did, and he knew that it was also written that a married man should cleave to his wife, and not his parents. He was married now, and he would have to soothe this new quarrel on his own.

"What can I do?" he asked. "How can I make this right between us?"

Something in his voice must have conveyed his desperation, for Benvolio's expression softened. "Perhaps it is not so hard as we make it out to be," he suggested. "Wilt thou give me thy word that thou wilt not perpetrate such deception again?"

Romeo almost made a quick reply, but then held his tongue and thought for a moment. "I know not," he admitted at last. "But I will give my word that I will do all that is in my power not to deceive thee, and that I will place in thee the full measure of the trust that thou hast earned."

Benvolio nodded. "That is enough, I trow. What of Mercutio? I know that he misses thee. Wilt thou not spare an hour to see him?"

"Perhaps . . ." Romeo began, but then had to pause as the deep shame rose up inside him. "Perhaps thou may'st greet him from me when thou dost see him again."

It was not enough, and Romeo knew it. Benvolio said nothing, but disappointment radiated from him as light from the sun. Romeo looked away so that Benvolio would not see the fiery blush that he was sure was spreading over his face. But it seemed that today was a day for total honesty and the release of secrets, so Romeo took a deep breath and put voice to his shame.

"I cannot face him," he said, in a small voice. "I was at fault in his injury, for it was I who pulled him onto Tybalt's blade. He would not be in the surgeon's home were it not for me."

He did not look up, not wanting to see the hatred that he knew would fill Benvolio's eyes upon hearing that tidbit. But Benvolio merely sighed and then chuckled a little. Romeo heard weariness in that chuckle, but no malice, so he looked back and rejoiced to see Benvolio smiling a little.

"I am glad to hear thee admit that," Benvolio said. "I am reasonably certain that Mercutio will forgive thee thy trespass if thou dost ask it of him, but thou must do so thyself."

Romeo sighed, and then nodded. "I will go this afternoon, then," he said. "Should I tell Mercutio about Juliet?"

Benvolio snorted. "If thou dost not, who will? I have not told him. Juliet is thy wife, not mine. It was thy choice to wed her, and it is thy part to acknowledge thyself as her husband."

"Then I will do so. Wilt thou forgive me now?"

At that, Benvolio's smile broadened until it lit his entire face. "I think I have already forgiven thee, cousin mine," he said. "Did I not tell thee that I might have done likewise in thy position?"

Romeo nodded. "Ay. But thou didst not, while I did thus. Come, embrace me now. I would gain a wife, but not at the cost of my friends."

Benvolio stepped forward and gave Romeo a quick, firm embrace. "I am glad now," he admitted. "I can look upon thy face once more. I did not wish to lose that."

"And thou hast not. Look, I will go to Mercutio now. And thou shouldst take thy ease. Too much of worry hast thou had."

Benvolio did not argue the point, but gave a weary nod. "Ay. Much has happened, perhaps far more than thou knowest. But perhaps all will turn out for the best."

"Of course," Romeo said. "Thou and I are friends once more, and Mercutio will recover and rejoin us in time. There is no force in heaven or on earth that could tear thy friends from thy side, gentle coz."

Benvolio gave a broad smile, and embraced Romeo once more before Romeo left to set out on his errand.


	2. All Montagues And Thee

**2. All Montagues And Thee

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**

Three days after the disgrace of his family, Tybalt summoned all of his pride and knocked at the door of the Montague family home. Though he had always known where it was, he had never set foot inside; even his challenge to Romeo he had sent with his page. The boy attended him even now, but hung back, unwilling to disturb his volatile master.

Tybalt had long dreamed of entering the Montague stronghold, but his fantasies had always involved a bloody charge and a short but undoubtedly heroic fight that would lead to a glorious victory. Ever since his manhood had come upon him, visions of a nubile chambermaid or two had appended themselves onto the image of the victory. But never had he fantasized about cooling his heels at the door like any common supplicant. It seemed ages until a placid servant opened the door and gazed expectantly at him. Tybalt drew himself up as straight as possible, and looked down his nose at the fellow. "I have come to pay a call upon my cousin," he said, and worked his mouth for a few moments before managing to add, "Mistress Juliet Montague."

The servant nodded. "Of course, Signior Tybalt. Come, I will show you to a receiving room, and I will send for the Lady Juliet."

Tybalt followed the servant closely, making a game of almost treading upon the man's heels, but never doing him actual harm. He carefully avoided admiring the frescoed walls, which he had heard were the work of the master Antonio Badile himself. Though he could not ignore the dark elegance of the receiving room into which the servant ushered him, he did wait until the Montague man had withdrawn before running his finger over the surface of a delicate inlaid table. He did have to admit, albeit somewhat grudgingly, that the Montagues had good taste in decoration, enough to keep him entertained until Juliet arrived.

In fact, he became so absorbed in contemplating a portrait of a lady dressed in a gown of the previous century that he failed to notice Juliet immediately. It was only when he heard the delicate cough behind him that he turned to see his cousin standing in the doorway. She wore a simple dress of olive velvet, one that she had worn at her old home, but whose muted color matched the sobriety of her husband's house. The long dark braid that he had loved to pull when they were both children was coiled and pinned on top of her head, with a mauve veil attached to the coil. Juliet looked as serene and foreign as the portrait of the Montague bride that Tybalt had just been admiring. But then she smiled at him, and her eyes were the same as the little girl who had always tagged after him, whining for attention.

"Tybalt, my dearest cousin and friend!" Juliet said, and hurried across the room to embrace him. "It is a joy to see thee here. I had feared thou wast lost to me forever."

"Nay, fair cousin, I shall be at thy command ever and anon."

"I am glad of it." Juliet released him from her embrace, but retained his arm. "Shall I show thee my new house?"

Tybalt took in her sober dress and her matron's coiffure. "Nay, do not trouble thyself. I see all of the signs upon thy person."

Juliet looked puzzled, and glanced down at her skirt, as if expecting to find some spot of dust.

"Juliet Capulet is no more," Tybalt elaborated. "Thou art become Juliet Montague, and the house of Capulet will wither before the name of its ancient foe."

At that, Juliet dropped his arm and gave him a sharp glance. "So thy true purpose emerges," she said, her voice much cooler than before. "I had thought that thou hadst come to wish me well in my marriage and to remake our childhood friendship. It appears that I was mistaken."

"Nay, I --"

"An thou art come to berate me or my Romeo, then thou mayst depart at once. But if thou wouldst maintain a civil tongue in thy head, then thou hast leave to speak." Juliet marched over to a table flanked by two upholstered chairs and sat primly in one, spreading her skirt wide. Tybalt followed her, but did not sit.

"I am not come to berate thee," he said, his manner as civil as he could make it. "I have already been chastened by my Prince and my noble uncle, and I have no more need of scolding. But I would engage thee in conversation of some import."

Juliet gestured toward the other chair, and Tybalt sat down. "For Romeo, I have but one thing to say. If ever he doth displease thee, call upon me, and I shall make short work of him."

"Such call wilt thou never receive," Juliet replied. "Dost thou name this a conversation of import?"

"Nay, but this next I do." Tybalt took a deep breath and willed his voice not to shake. "Why didst thou cast thy name and thy family's pride to the wind? Thou couldst have had the County Paris and become the Princess of Verona in time. Wherefore didst thou defy thy parents and ally thyself with thy enemy?"

Juliet did not flinch at the question, but stared straight back at him, her wide green eyes serene and unblinking. "I wedded Romeo because I love him and am loved by him in turn."

Of all the answers Juliet could have given, Tybalt had not expected that one at all. Love had its place in marriage, of course; Tybalt would never dream of entering into a marriage or allowing Juliet to enter into a marriage where there was no possibility of love. Love certainly contributed to a peaceful home, though Uncle Leonardo and Aunt Isabella had provided ample proof that domestic tranquility did not absolutely depend on it. And old Angelica had staunchly maintained that a child conceived by loving parents would be healthier and more likely to survive than a child conceived by parents who did not love. But the idea that something as important as a marriage could have been contracted purely on the basis of love astonished him.

"Love?" he choked out. "Thou didst defy thy father's wisdom and cast aside thy ancestral name for love?"

"Ay," Juliet said, then leaned closer to enunciate each word. "And I would do it again without doubt or hesitation."

Tybalt's fists clenched of their own accord, and he surged to his feet to pace away the worst part of his sudden fury before he caused an unfortunate scene in the house that he still considered to be his enemy's. "Does the name of Capulet mean so little to thee?" he asked.

Juliet did not answer immediately. After a moment, Tybalt heard the rustling of her skirts, and then she stood beside him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. When he turned to her, his eyes blurred with tears. He quickly blinked them away, but was relieved to see no contempt in her eyes, only the same adoring expression that she had always shown him.

"I beg thy pardon, sweet Tybalt," she said. "It was not my intent to give offense. I know what the name must mean to thee."

"It is thy name by right of birth," he replied. "Canst thou not conceive of thy privilege? Were such fortune mine, I should guard it as the most precious treasure that earth could yield."

A puzzled frown crept across Juliet's brow. "The law hath granted thee all that privilege," she said. "Thou art my father's ward and his heir, as much as his son would have been."

"But I am not his son!" Tybalt cried, twisting away from Juliet. "The law may grant me land and money, but it cannot grant me an honorable name. Heir to Capulet I may be, but I am forever the son of Luca Grasso, a man who counts his worth in coin more than in dignity! He gave me away simply to secure that thy father's fortune would come to him in time."

"To thee. Thou art my father's heir, not Luca Grasso."

"Thou art a silly girl," Tybalt sniffed. "What dost thou think will happen upon thy father's death? I shall inherit a son's portion of the house of Capulet, and then Luca Grasso will appear, solicitous and desiring to be a father once again. It is the fortune he wants, not the child. The man of honor is not my father, and though his fortune will be mine, I shall never have his dignity. That is what thou hast cast aside in thy haste for love."

Juliet pursed her lips and was silent for a while. Tybalt turned away from her and pretended to examine a small, intricately wrought silver fruit bowl. A core of hot anger burned within his breast, mingled with shame at having spoken so frankly to his cousin, who was, after all, still only a child, and could not be expected to appreciate important affairs of men.

For her part, Juliet stepped aside and began to study the portrait of the Montague lady that Tybalt had examined earlier. "I must remember to ask Mother Susanna who she was," she mused, seemingly to herself, but just loud enough for Tybalt to hear every word.

Though Tybalt recoiled inwardly at the affectionate reference to Juliet's new mother-in-law, he put on an air of calm disdain. "That is no great puzzle. Most likely, it is a portrait of an ancestress of the current Signior Montague."

"But who was she before that, I wonder?" Juliet replied. "For, unless it is customary in my husband's family to wed one's own brother, against all the laws of God and men, she was not born a Montague."

"What does it matter? Whatever her family of birth, she lived as a Montague, bore sons with the name of Montague, and died a Montague."

"Then the name of her birth cannot have been of much importance to her."

Tybalt looked up sharply. Juliet's face was still serene and innocent, but her eyes flashed. "I know naught of the joys and sorrows of being one man's son or another," she said, "but afore God, I know what it is to be a daughter! My name is no gift to me; rather, it is a loan from my father, for a term. Fourteen years, perhaps, or sixteen, seventeen, or even twenty. But it is a loan, and what is only borrowed must be returned. The name of Capulet was never mine to own, only to be held for a season, until I must take the name of another man."

"One that thy lord father would have chosen for thee, with care and foresight."

"The County Paris?"

Tybalt nodded. "He is noble and honorable, and will become the Prince of Verona in time. The name of Montague does not touch him."

"And what is in a name?" Juliet shot back. "A woman's name may change, but she is still herself beneath it. Why, then, should it not be the same with a man? And if the name have no such power to charm, then why should it command my loyalties? I wedded Romeo, not his name."

"No!" Another burst of fury surged up in Tybalt's breast, and he stalked towards Juliet, secretly pleased to see her retreat a few steps and seize the back of a chair for support. "That is what a slip of a girl cannot possibly hope to understand. Thou canst not wed Romeo and not his name. His name is part of him. Romeo is Montague, and there is no way to sever the two. All that was thine as a Capulet has derived to thy ancient foe, and thou art a fool to think otherwise."

"And wherefore, pray tell, should I trouble myself?" Juliet snapped. "The name would have vanished upon my marriage regardless of the particular husband, for I have no living brothers. Thou, son of Grasso, hast more claim to its power than ever I did. Wherefore should I not spend what little interest I possess in the name to wed for love and bring peace to Verona?"

"Peace, peace!" Tybalt sneered. "What is peace? Simply to throw our blades to the ground, devoid of honor or glory?"

"The honor and glory that would have derived to thee from the death of Mercutio Rinuccini?"

That brought Tybalt up short. It was true that he had never liked Mercutio, even when they had been boys together at the Latin school. Besides being ugly, skinny, and having poor taste in companions, Mercutio had been too clever by half, always eager to show off for Friar Salvatore. Tybalt had not been sorry in the least when Mercutio had suddenly begun to struggle after Friar Salvatore's death, and he had been positively overjoyed when Signior Rinuccini had pulled Mercutio out of the Latin school for good. Over the years, Mercutio's quick temper had proved a steady source of amusement if Tybalt felt like a fight.

However, as Tybalt had spent many an hour with Friar Lawrence confessing, murder was something far different. His quarrels with Mercutio were, in the end, a thing of boyhood, meant to flare up suddenly and fade away with equal swiftness, returning in time in an endless cycle. But the sickening grate as Tybalt's blade had slid between Mercutio's ribs and the horrifying smear of bright blood on the foible had brought that diversion to a terrible new plane. Tybalt knew that it was by sheer good fortune alone that accident had not become a murder that would have meant his own death as well.

"That was never meant to be," he grumbled, chastened. He turned away from Juliet, who, with all the perversity of a girl, hurried to take his arm.

"Thou hast thy glory and thy honor, dear Tybalt," she said. "Thou hast struck terror deep into the hearts of my husband and his cousin. They do not speak much of it in my presence, but I see it in their eyes."

Tybalt considered Juliet's words. If she spoke truly, then perhaps he could count at least a small victory for himself. He had not considered that a strike at Mercutio could have such an effect on the soft, simpering Montague boys, but he was glad of it. He was especially glad to have terrified Benvolio, whom he had always envied for losing his parents quickly in the long-ago earthquake rather than having to endure the shame of being bartered away as so much coin in trade. "Perhaps," he mused, "if they have proved themselves cowards in the matter of friendship . . ."

"Then thou hast thy victory," Juliet said. "Thou mayst walk the streets of Verona secure in thy own fearlessness, and perhaps we may consign this endless bloodshed to the past."

Friar Lawrence had said much the same thing after Tybalt's secret, shamefully tearful confessions. And, though Tybalt would never dream of telling another soul, the idea did have a certain appeal. At the very least, it meant that he could pursue his own more amorous pleasures without having to surround himself with quite so many bodyguards.

It seemed that Friar Lawrence was right, in the end; everything eventually passed away, including the glory and the name of the house of Capulet. Juliet's point could not be gainsaid. Whether she married Paris or Romeo, the name of Capulet would vanish, and the name of Montague would survive. The thought weighed upon Tybalt's heart, but there was no longer anything he could do about that.

Still, perhaps one last shred of hope remained. "Juliet," he said. She gazed at him, unblinking. "Wilt thou make one promise to me at the last?"

"What promise should I make?"

Tybalt swallowed. "It is simply . . . to remember. Remember that thou wast born a Capulet. Remember the honor of thy native house and of the line that bore thee. Let not thy children grow up in ignorance of who they might have been."

Juliet smiled. "Of course I shall remember," she said. "I shall tell them of how peace came to Verona through the love that created them, and to tell them that, I must tell them of the house of Capulet."

"And so thou wilt remain my gentle cousin." The thought was balm to Tybalt's soul, though he would let none see that. Instead, he kissed Juliet's hand and took his leave, walking out of the house of Montague into the sunshine.


	3. A Man Of Wax

**3. A Man Of Wax

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**

As he walked into the ghetto for the second time in four days, Paris decided that, if this was not quite the most tumultuous week of his life, it was certainly the strangest. On Sunday, he had thought his heart would burst with delight when Leonardo Capulet had all but promised him Juliet's hand in marriage. That happiness had lasted but a single day, and Paris had spent the remainder of the week walking about in a fog of bewilderment, not quite able to comprehend how he had lost his betrothed lady and his sense of place in the world so suddenly.

At least he had not lost his cousin. Mercutio had been horribly pale and wracked with pain the last time that Paris had seen him, in the house of a Jewish surgeon whom Paris had never met and whose very existence he had never suspected. It was incredible enough that one of the Jews in Verona had been revealed as a surgeon, but his skills had put those of the Italian surgeons to shame. Against all the odds, Mercutio had survived a wound that should have killed him, and Valentine had reported that Mercutio improved a little each day. Amazed and relieved, Paris tore himself from his own private misery to witness his cousin's miraculous recovery for himself.

He remembered the way to the surgeon's home with no prompting, and managed a wry smile at that. Who would have suspected that the ghetto would become such familiar territory to him? When he knocked on the door, a young servant bowed politely to usher him inside, and one of the surgeon's sons escorted him to a door cunningly concealed behind a tapestry.

When Paris had been small, his nurse had frightened him into good behavior by telling him stories of the evil Jews who would kidnap mischievous little boys and carry them off to strange, foul-smelling chambers to cook and eat them. When Paris had first entered the surgeon's home the day after the horrible street fight, he had been relieved, if slightly disappointed, to find that the place smelled exactly like any gentle home in the city. However, the sight of the surgery chamber, with its menacing implements and the table all draped in white like a sacrificial altar, might have confirmed Paris's childhood fears if he had not seen Mercutio sitting up in a chair near the couch.

Mercutio looked wan and weary, and was wrapped in a large shawl beneath which Paris could see the bandages that swathed his chest. But he was sitting up, and that was something that Paris had hardly dared to hope to see. Relief flooded through him, mingled with an undercurrent of anger. Paris carefully pushed the anger away, and went to Mercutio, embracing him gently so as not to disturb his healing wounds.

Mercutio tolerated the embrace for a moment, then squirmed, and Paris released him. "What, wilt thou not scold?" Mercutio asked with a smile. "Art thou truly my cousin, or art thou an impostor?"

In spite of himself, Paris laughed as he sat down on the couch near Mercutio's chair. "No impostor," he said. "In truth, I have thought of a dozen ways to scold thee, but in my joy at seeing thee alive, I find that I can recall none of them."

Mercutio's smile wavered, and he looked uncertain. "And in thy sorrow as well?" he asked. "I have heard that thy marriage has been canceled."

Paris bit his lip. "Ay. But nothing may change that, so thou needst not concern thyself."

"Art thou not angered? Thou hast spoken of little else save thy impending betrothal for a fortnight. When Romeo came to me with the news that he had wedded thy bride, I thought that --"

"Well, do not think." Paris pressed his lips together and swallowed. "Juliet is happy, and that is all that I would have wished for her."

Mercutio gave a small shrug. "As thou wilt."

The treacherous voice inside Paris's heart silently cursed at Mercutio for mentioning Juliet. After Paris had worked so hard to accept the girl's choice, he was horrified to find that the anger and disappointment still raged within him. Before he could stop himself, some of it leaked out. "What has possessed thee, Mercutio?" he snapped. "Why didst thou defy Uncle's express command and fight her cousin in the street?"

"Because the King of cats taunted Romeo where all eyes could see and all ears could hear," Mercutio shot back. "I had thought that thou didst know that much of honor, at least."

"Ay, I know as much of honor as any gentleman. But what of the law?" Paris asked. "Uncle did expressly forbid dueling in the streets."

"He did not. He forbade dueling between the houses of Montague and Capulet. I am neither."

Paris rolled his eyes and bit back a sharp retort. Mercutio's wounds were likely still painful, he reminded himself, and Mercutio had been confined to a room in a strange house for several days. It was no wonder that his temper was fraying. Paris, older and wiser, would have to be the one to keep the conversation polite.

"Still," he said, in his most reasonable tone, "it was a law. Hast thou no respect for the laws of this city?"

Mercutio scowled at him, then glanced away. "I respect no law that harms those governed by it," he admitted.

Paris could not stifle a little gasp of horror. Where did one even begin when addressing such a dangerous statement as that? It was an attitude that would inevitably lead Mercutio to death either by sword in the street or on the executioner's scaffold, sentencing his soul at the very least to a near-eternity in Purgatory, if not directly to Hell itself. He tried to swallow his terror at the thought of what seemed to be his cousin's ongoing mad quest for damnation. Perhaps, in the wake of such a near-fatal accident, there was still a chance to save him.

"That is not thy place to decide," he said. "Wiser heads than thine have made the law, and it is for thine own weal that thou must obey."

"For mine own weal?" Mercutio's head suddenly flopped forward, and his shoulders began to tremble. Horrified, Paris leaped from the couch, and had rushed to kneel at Mercutio's side before he realized that Mercutio was laughing at him.

"Mine own weal?" Mercutio gasped. "Paris, thou art meant to be clever. Has the loss of thy bride addled thy brains completely?"

"Tread with care," Paris said, though he could not quite force any menace into his voice.

As was his wont, Mercutio ignored the warning. "My tutor tells me constantly that thou shouldst serve as a model for my studies," he said. "Therefore be so. Use thy vaunted brains and tell me, when has obeying a law ever given me benefit?"

"What should I tell thee?" Paris retorted. "Thou dost not obey laws. Thou dost run wild in the streets, more like unto a beast than a man."

"That is because I know what the laws of men cannot do!" Mercutio cried, then crumpled back in his chair as a grimace of pain swept over his face. Paris reached out to him, but Mercutio shook his hand away. "The law tells me that I must obey my father's commands. I obeyed that law, and my father, through the years of my childhood, as a good son must, and I gained nothing by it save hurt and shame."

He refused to meet Paris's eyes. Silently, Paris cursed himself. He had so rarely had cause to associate with his Aunt Donatella's husband that he had forgotten just how brutish the man had been. A terrible memory of Mercutio standing in their uncle's study, pale and trembling, his hose stained with blood, flashed in Paris's mind, and he quickly shoved it away. "I am sorry," he offered. "I forgot for a moment."

Mercutio nodded. "Thou canst forget," he said. "How I envy thee. But now I tell thee true, it has only been in the breaking of the law that my weal was served. It was not lawful to flee my father's house, nor to kidnap my brother as I went, but our lives were saved by that misdeed. It was not lawful to demand that the ghetto might be opened past curfew to admit the surgeon's daughter, but it is for that misdeed that Eliezer remembered me in my hour of distress."

Paris swallowed. "Perhaps," he suggested, "if thou wouldst make some effort to obey the laws that men have enacted for thy sake, thou might find thyself with fewer hours of distress."

This was met not with mockery or laughter, as Paris had expected. Instead, Mercutio raised his eyebrows, interested, but also skeptical. "Wilt thou be my model, then?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Thou dost obey every rule that thou dost encounter. Are thy hours of distress so few?"

Paris opened his mouth, intending to affirm that statement. But something in Mercutio's weary, open expression demanded complete honesty. So Paris closed his mouth and began to consider what his twenty-three years of law-abiding existence had brought him.

His first memory was of being three years old, and of meeting Giacomo Rinuccini's kinsmen when they traveled from Mantua to attend Rinuccini's wedding to Aunt Donatella. On the request of his nurse, Paris had shared his beloved hobby horse with Claudio Borsa, a guest only a year his senior. Claudio had refused to return the toy, but had played with it until it broke. At twelve years old, Paris had obeyed his tutor's orders to spend a lovely summer's day studying indoors. The terror of scrambling for shelter as an earthquake rocked the house had never left him. He had honored and loved his father and his mother until he was fifteen, when their deaths from the plague, within hours of each other, had torn his heart from his chest. His efforts at nineteen to establish his proper authority over his younger cousins had earned him nothing more than a series of quarrels with Mercutio that he wished he had not had. And finally, his proper, decorous courtship of Juliet had ended ignominiously with Romeo whisking her away beneath his nose.

With no small sense of astonishment, Paris realized that his efforts at obedience had brought him very little. His good behavior had always won him the approval of the adults in his life, but that was all. The promised reward had never quite managed to appear.

Well, that was what Heaven was for, was it not? The priests had told Paris just that, as he mourned over his parents' grave. They had shed their earthly cares and were even now receiving the joy of all that had been denied to them in life, including the knowledge that their son was a good, godly, and obedient child. It had been cold comfort, but Paris had taken it eagerly. He was the good son, and that knowledge had sustained him through the disappointments of his life.

He squared his shoulders and faced Mercutio. "I have had my hours of distress," he said. "But as it is said, virtue is its own reward, and the virtuous will find favor in Heaven."

But as lovely and proper as this speech was, it, too, failed to bring Paris the response he desired. Mercutio's expression hardened. "Perhaps I should have died after the first time that I allowed my father to rob me of my innocence," he spat.

For a moment, Paris thought that Mercutio had spoken simply to shock and challenge him. But one look at the distress in his cousin's eyes convinced him otherwise. As terrible as his words were, Mercutio apparently meant them in all sincerity. Horrified, Paris seized his hands.

"Oh, Mercutio, no," he breathed. "Speak not of such a death, not so soon after thy life has been spared."

"Why should I not? Perhaps thou art correct, and my life should not have been spared this time. Perhaps it is better to die and to cease troubling this world with my existence."

Paris's vision blurred, and his nose stung. Hastily, he blinked the tears away. "Do not speak thus, Mercutio, or I must fear that thou wouldst fly in the face of God and turn thine own hand against thyself."

Mercutio gave a bitter little laugh. "What, wilt thou quote another law to me that I must disobey?"

Of course, it had been precisely the wrong thing to say. Paris closed his eyes and felt fresh tears about the lashes as he struggled to find the words that he desired. "Not a law, Mercutio, but the most solemn plea of thy kinsman."

Mercutio said nothing. Paris opened his eyes and was heartened to see Mercutio studying him intently. "I pray thee, Mercutio, listen and hear my words," he said, not even trying to disguise the emotion in his voice. "I know that we have had our differences, and I admit that a part of the fault is mine, and I am most truly sorry for that. I fear that I have been remiss in other quarters as well."

"In what quarters?"

"In those quarters that perhaps thou didst have most need of," Paris admitted. "I fear that thou knowest not how much I care for thee. Thou wast the first babe that ever I did hold in my arms, and I fancied that thou couldst be a small brother to me."

Mercutio's eyebrows shot up at that, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "I am no one's small brother," he said.

Paris had to smile in return. "I know that now. Thou didst scold me oft enough for treating thee so when first thou and I did dwell together beneath Uncle's roof. In time, I do learn."

Mercutio dropped his gaze and tried to look away, but Paris commanded his attention with a squeeze of his hands. "I will not treat thee as a small brother again. But thou must know that I care for thee, and that thou dost strike terror deep into my soul when thou dost act with such reckless abandon as thou didst show on Monday. If thou wilt not exercise some prudence for the sake of thine own skin, perhaps thou might do it for me, or for Valentine. We would not lose thee, and we would not live in fear all the days of our lives."

"I shall obey no law that will harm me," Mercutio declared, though his tone was less defiant than his words.

"I shall not ask thee to do so," Paris assured him. "I ask only that thou might, on occasion, think before thou dost act, and consider if the law that thou wouldst flout would truly harm thee."

Mercutio considered this proposition for a time, then nodded. "But I shall extract a promise of thee in return," he said.

"What wouldst thou have?"

"If I am to examine the laws that I would flout, then thou must examine the laws that thou wouldst obey," Mercutio said. "If thou dost eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou dost gain the knowledge of good and evil, even if thou art cast from Paradise as a result."

Now it was Paris's turn to draw back in surprise. "Wouldst thou have me cast forth from Paradise, then?" he asked.

Mercutio laughed, genuinely and without rancor. "Ay. Paradise is dull and unchanging, and it is surely no place for a man of strength and vigor. If thou dost take a chance, thou wilt lose some thing. But what wouldst thou gain? Thou wilt recall that Romeo took a chance."

That was true, though Paris blushed to admit it to himself. And, now that he recalled some hushed conversation that he had overheard between his uncle and the first gentleman of the bedchamber, he suspected that Romeo's timid little kinsman Benvolio had taken an even greater chance. Paris knew not whether that risk would pay in the end; certainly Mercutio would not wish to discuss it with him just yet. But if Romeo could whisk a maid away from her family on a whim, and Benvolio could put his life and soul on the line, then surely Paris might find some small venture upon which to wager his reputation.

"I shall seek another bride," he heard himself say. "And I shall approach her and not her father."

He was just petty enough to be thrilled at Mercutio's mildly startled response to that statement. But then Mercutio smiled approvingly. "I wish thee luck in thy venture," he said. "I shall look forward to dancing at thy nuptials."

Paris grinned and reached out to ruffle Mercutio's hair. "Thou mayst dance only if thou art fully healed," he said, "and thou must rest if thou wouldst heal. Therefore promise me that thou wilt obey this rule and take thy rest."

"Only if thou dost promise me to take thy risk while I take thy rest."

Paris nodded. "Ay. I will do so. And I will be married, and thou wilt dance again." He rose to his feet and gently guided Mercutio from the chair to the couch. Mercutio lay down with only a small grunt of pain, and Paris covered him with a blanket. Their conversation, though enlightening, had also been draining, and Mercutio fell asleep only a few minutes later.

Paris smoothed his hand over his cousin's hair one last time, then walked out of the surgery chamber, closing the door behind him. He took his leave of Eliezer, then walked out, determined to face the world with bold countenance.

* * *

END

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Afterword: Many thanks to those who have read and enjoyed this story! Lots of air cleared in a series of painful conversations, but I think that they were conversations that needed to happen. I liked having the opportunity to use perspectives that I hadn't used before, and listening to these characters' voices has definitely given me more insight into the way they think, which might prove useful in the future.


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